Entitlements
by Screaming Ferret
Summary: Clarice at home, very drunk, and Hannibal drops by to say Hello...Set a couple of years after the film
1. I'm not as think as you drunk I am.

  
AN/ This one was nearly called 'Buggered For A Title' because there was no way I could find one that fit. Fortunately Hannibal the Novel came to my rescue. I found the title I chose in the chapter before dinner. Well, this time Hannibal has come to collect his entitlements, and ensure that Clarice gets what she is due too. You'll find that I'm incapable of being serious for very long, so don't expect anything too dark and dreadful. It's rather whimsical in places, but that's OK. Clarice Starling is fun to write when she's drunk. :)  
  
Disclaimer: All the characters mentioned belong to Thomas Harris. I'm only letting them out to play for a bit, and I'll put them back in the box when I'm finished. I'm not making any money either, so don't sue.  
  
ENTITLEMENTS  
  
The quiet Arlington street is dark, save for the single light in the window of Number 15 and the dull orange glow of the street lamps. It is twelve o' clock midnight, the 'witching hour'. The full moon is rising above the trees at the end of the street, casting her silvery light on the neighbourhood's tidy front lawns. A full-moon midnight, and all the loonies are out in force, as demonstrated by the gang of drunken Rocky Horror wannabes gently meandering down the middle of the road.  
  
A shadow detached itself from the darkness beneath a tree outside Number 15. The shadow slipped silently up the drive, past the powerful Mustang hunkered over its wheels like some slumbering beast, up to the front door. A couple of seconds work with a small pair of wire-cutters (for the alarm) and a skeleton key (for the locks) and the shadow was inside.  
  
Inside the house was cool and dark. The noise from the TV could be heard in the hall. Hannibal Lecter, for it was he, stalked down the hallway towards the source of the noise. The living-room door was wide open and Dr Lecter paused in the doorway to take in the scene.  
  
Clarice Starling sat curled in an oversized armchair, her eyes unfocused, staring at the television. In one hand she held a large glass of neat vodka, in the other she held the bottle. The TV remote lay forgotten on the coffee table beside her. She had not noticed him. Dr Lecter considered her a moment before moving forward, scooping up the remote and turning the television off.  
  
The room seemed to spin slowly as Clarice turned towards the door. She could make out a figure standing above her, in her inebriated state she could not make out who it was.  
  
"Hey" she slurred, "I was watching that."  
  
"Nonsense, Clarice. Since when have you been interested in darts?" The voice of Hannibal Lecter cut through her fogged brain and she sat bolt upright in her chair, slopping vodka over her lap.  
  
"Doctor Lecter." Clarice grinned brightly. She was slurring badly and his name sounded more like 'Dorror Leccer'.  
  
"The very same, my dear. Tsk tsk Clarice. Vodka? I would have thought you'd've had more taste"  
  
"It tastes jus' fine, Doctor Lecter."  
  
"I'm sure it does, if you happen to be partial to paint stripper. I've never fancied the stuff myself."  
  
Clarice hiccoughed. "Ever'body knows you have more refined tastes, Doctor." She took another swig of the cheap gutrot, before Dr Lecter prised the bottle out of her grip. "Hey, gi' it back. Did you come here jus' to steal my alcohol? Haven't you got your own?"  
  
"Drunkenness is no excuse to be rude, Clarice. I am merely concerned over the state of your liver."  
  
Clarice sniggered. "Why? Afraid you might get food poisoning?"  
  
"Oh, I could never eat you, Clarice. Not at the moment, anyway. It is not polite to eat one's host."  
  
"There's a comfort. D'ya think I could have my drink back please?" She looked at him imploringly. Hannibal Lecter chuckled, amused.  
  
"Drowning your sorrows, Clarice? I assure you, it won't work. You can marinate them in cheap booze all you like, but they'll still be there the next day. Didn't your stint in a mental institution teach you anything?"  
  
She scowled. "Been followin' my so-called 'career' in the papers, huh? The Tattler had a field day with that one. 'Bride of Frankenstein is wheeled off to the Fruitcake Department."  
  
"I can imagine."  
  
Clarice continued as if she had not heard him. "It was horrible in there. They all treated me like I was some kind of psycho, y'know there were people there who'd done horrendous things, but I was the one they were scared of. Crawford, that bastard, said he was gonna send me to a good psychiatrist, but they carted me off there." She laughed a little manicly.  
  
"You find that amusing, that they were scared of you?"  
  
"I do now. I was jus' thinking about Crawford sending me to a good psychiatrist. Those were his words." She started to laugh again. "The son of a bitch did that years ago, and look at me. I'm a common damn drunk. I'm as sodden as a sponge."  
  
Dr Lecter smiled a little. "Drunk, definitely, but not common. Never common."  
  
"You think so?" Clarice brightened up.  
  
"I have thought so for years, my dear. Now, lets sober you up a little. We cannot have a meaningful conversation while you are as pickled as a newt, as the saying goes. I think strong coffee would do it."  
  
"In the kitchen, beside the sink." She hiccoughed. "Why'd you come back, if you don't mind me asking? You were away clear. Again. Far as I know, there are no new leads on your case. Not that they'd tell me if there were, even if they knew you were around. Dr Lecter? Where are you?"  
  
Clarice climbed laboriously to her feet, swayed and staggered off towards the kitchen. The room swam in and out of focus as she reached the kitchen door and propped herself up against the doorframe. Hannibal Lecter was examining with distaste the jars of instant coffee on the sideboard. He turned to her.  
  
"Ah, Clarice. Is this the only coffee you've got? Or perhaps you have some coffee beans stashed away in here."  
  
Clarice laughed. "Coffee beans? Real coffee? On my paycheck? Be serious."  
  
"So the new job isn't all it's cracked up to be, hmm? But better working for a security firm than cleaning motels like your mommy." As he spoke, he spooned three very generous spoonfuls of coffee into a large mug. "Sugar?"  
  
"Two, please." She eyed the mug suspiciously. "You must really want me to sober up."  
  
"As entertaining as you are while drunk, my dear, I would nevertheless prefer you to be sober for our little chat."  
  
Starling hiccoughed again and clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oops. So you didn't come here to take advantage of me drunk?"  
  
Dr Lecter's eyes twinkled. "A gentleman does not 'take advantage' of a lady when she is indisposed."  
  
She grinned. "Indisposed? I love it. So when does the gentleman take advantage of the lady then? It always happens in those awful TV movies, y'know, British costume dramas." She took the mug of coffee Dr Lecter handed her and tried a sip. "Oh my God that's disgusting. It tastes like stagnant ditchwater."  
  
"Drink it all" he said, watching her intently. "And I hope for your sake you've never partaken of stagnant ditchwater."  
  
"Fell in a ditchfull when I was a little girl." She pulled a face. "If I didn't know your M.O. I'd think you were trying to poison me."  
  
Dr Lecter smiled rather unpleasantly. "Oh I never use poison. It's so hard to get it out of the meat afterwards."  
  
"Thank you for that. I think." Clarice lurched towards the sitting-room, trying not to spill her coffee as she went. Dr Lecter came to her rescue, supporting her with an arm around her waist, taking the coffee mug from her unsteady hands. She draped one arm across his shoulders and tried to walk straight. As he lowered her gently on to the couch she wrapped both arms around his neck and tried to pull him down too.  
  
"No, Clarice" he said softly, pulling her hands away.  
  
"What's the matter? Don't you want to take advantage of me?" Clarice looked disappointed. Dr Lecter reached out and gently stroked her cheek.  
  
"You're drunk, my dear. You'd probably regret it in the morning."  
  
"No. I wouldn't. You know what? Crawford thinks a lot more went on at Krendler's house than I told him about." She sighed. "Know what I do regret?" Clarice looked up at him and sipped her coffee.  
  
"And what is that, Clarice?"  
  
"That I called the cops. That Crawford's wrong. It all went wrong. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."  
  
Dr Lecter saw tears in her eyes. Although pleased that she had suffered for him, he couldn't stand to see her cry. He moved closer to wipe the tears away with his thumb.  
  
"Hush, little Starling. Surely if I can forgive you, then you can forgive yourself?" He held up his left hand and wiggled the fingers. "See? It's almost as good as new. Admittedly a little stiff, but it works."  
  
Clarice grinned weakly. "At least you can hold a knife and open a bottle of wine, huh?"  
  
"Exactly. And now what am I going to do with you? I did bring a bottle of wine, but seeing that you are as drunk as a lord, I think it would be wiser if you did not have any more."   
  
She wiped her eyes and sniffed. Dr Lecter winced. "Please don't do that, Clarice. It's a particularly unlovely sound."  
  
"I'll sniff if I want. It's my house." Clarice yawned and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but I'm just so tired." Within seconds she was asleep.  
  
Dr Lecter watched her for a while. He always enjoyed watching her sleep. However, this time his enjoyment was curtailed by the fact that she was obviously not well. She was too thin and pale. Judging from the circles under her eyes, she hadn't slept properly for a while. He wondered if she worked a regular night-shift.   
  
He permitted himself to touch her face as she slept, trailing his fingers along the line of her jaw, pushing her hair back from her cheek. Her hair, as always, was glorious. Dr Lecter slid his arms around her and picked her up carefully. She did not wake, but he smiled as she snuggled closer to his chest. He carried Clarice upstairs to her bedroom and laid her on the bed. The baggy T-shirt she was wearing would serve as a nightie. He unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them off, then drew the duvet up over her slender body.   
  
Anyone who knew Hannibal Lecter would have marvelled at the tender way he tucked Clarice Starling into bed. He sat beside her for a while, watching over her. If she dreamt, it was not of lambs, of that he was sure. When he rose to go downstairs, she moved restlessly, as if she knew he was there. As he reached the door, he distinctly heard her say "Dorror Leccer." Hannibal grinned, his eyes sparkling with glee. 'Dorror Leccer.' With those words in her sleep, she was his. She might not realise it yet, but it is no good arguing with fate or Hannibal Lecter. He would have her. Dr Lecter resisted the ridiculous urge to sing that came over him then, but he did do a little jig of pure delight on the top hall. After checking Clarice was still asleep, of course.  
  
Downstairs, he let himself out the front door and strolled down the street to his car, a battered station-wagon. He fished out a green kit-bag, slung it over his shoulder and walked back up to Clarice's, whistling. Dr Lecter sat on her front porch to admire the full moon, and smoke an illicit cigar. The moon was high now, it would set in a couple of hours, and it's silver light was at it's strongest. It was almost light enough to read by. He finished the cigar, crushed it out on the path and let himself back indoors. The guest room looked comfortable enough for tonight.  
  
Clarice awoke to the delicious smell of frying bacon. She sat up in bed, looked around in surprise, then toppled back onto her pillow as the headache from Hell hit her straight between the eyes. When she could bring herself to crawl out of bed, she discovered that she was only wearing a T-shirt. Dr Lecter was beginning to make a habit of undressing her while she slept. Clarice tottered unsteadily to the window and slowly drew back the curtain. The bright morning sunlight greeted her cheerfully, making her head throb even more.  
  
"Ohhh, girl, what did you drink last night? And who gave you permission to be so damn bright?" she snapped at the sun, yanking the curtains closed again.  
  
When she made it downstairs, she found her unexpected guest busily frying eggs to go with the bacon. He looked up as she entered the small kitchen.  
  
"Don't say one damn word. I'm not in the mood for 'I told you so's"  
  
"Go back to bed, Clarice. I'll bring your breakfast up shortly."  
  
"Breakfast in bed? You're kidding?" She yawned. "I figured I'd better come and see what you were cooking."  
  
Dr Lecter laughed. "You needn't worry, my dear. I save my personal recipes for special occasions. I thought I'd treat you to breakfast in bed. When was the last time you ate breakfast, rather than drank it?"  
  
Clarice glared at him. "I'll have you know I eat breakfast most mornings. There's a little burger bar downtown I go to." It took a moment for her to realise that he was teasing.  
  
The doctor smiled. "Go back to bed. I'll be up in a moment."   
  
Once she had gone, Dr Lecter arranged the eggs, bacon, mushrooms and toast on a plate, collected a tray and the coffee, deftly balanced the lot and followed her up. Clarice was sitting up in bed.  
  
"This is difficult to believe" she said as he came in. "You are bringing me breakfast in bed. By rights, I should BE breakfast. Crawford would have kittens if he knew." She considered Crawford a moment, her head on one side. Then she laughed. "I wish he could see this."  
  
Dr Lecter set the tray down beside her. "That could be arranged" he said softly, closing the door as he left.  
  
Hannibal Lecter whistled as he walked down the stairs. There was no doubt about it. She was his. A mirror image of his own genius, a wolf of his own pack. He inwardly marvelled that Jack Crawford had not seen Clarice for what she was. Or had he? Was that why he had sent a mere trainee, little more than a child, into the lair of the beast? He knew Jacky boy tended to follow the old adage 'it takes one to catch one'. Hence, Will Graham. And not to be content with Graham's sacrifice, Crawford threw Starling to the big bad Wolf. Well, Starling's anger with her former mentor was understandable, and her grief. In Dr Lecter's mind, Crawford had a lot to answer for. The doctor smiled to himself. Jack Crawford would make an excellent gift for Clarice Starling. He had no doubt that she would appreciate his gesture.  
  
Dr Lecter amused himself by exploring whilst Clarice enjoyed a luxurious breakfast. He found the small room that functioned as her study to be particularly interesting. It was dominated by a cluttered desk, an old metal gun cabinet and a heavy, well used punch bag. He prodded the punch bag and it swung pendulously on its rope. The gun cabinet was locked. He supposed it contained her weapons. The desk, however, was overflowing with interesting things. Dr Lecter examined a couple of battered photos, people he could not put a name to. One square-jawed man in marine dress blues smiled up at him from a small, creased photograph. In another, a young African American woman in an FBI jacket regarded him with intelligence in her brown eyes. He laid the photos down and ferreted around in the top draw. He drew out another photograph, buried under papers. It was a black and white FBI mugshot. He turned it face up. It was a picture of himself. Not the most flattering picture he'd seen, but it was the thought that counted. He put the picture away, smiling.  
  
Dr Lecter cast another glance around her study. It was typically disorganised, but his eye was drawn to the Rolodex half buried under a newspaper. Pushing the paper aside, he flicked through it. Surely she'd have Jacky boy's address? Bingo. He scanned the card, memorising the address.   
  
When Clarice returned to the kitchen with her tray, she found Dr Lecter humming as he washed up. He did not speak until he had finished. Drying his hands on a tea towel he said "I have some business to attend to today. Do be a dear and don't get on the phone to the police while I'm gone."  
  
Clarice snorted. "Don't worry, Doctor. I'm not going to repeat old mistakes. Can I ask where you're going?"  
  
Hannibal Lecter flashed his small white teeth in an evil little smile. "Shopping" he said.   
  
  
Enjoy? Please review, cos I'm dying to know if you thought it was any good. I don't quite think I managed to pull it off. Well, actually it's hopeless, but I had fun writing it (Screaming Ferret and her inferiority complexes:). Tell me what ya think.  
  
Ta,  
Screaming Ferret.   
  
  
  
  



	2. Thinkin' about Hannibalism

AN/ Sorry this chapter is so short, but chapter 3 is coming up shortly. Incidentally - and this has nothing to do with the story - I read in the paper recently about two Girl Scouts who tried their luck selling cookies to Anthony Hopkins in LA. They knocked on his door, and when he answered, they both stared at him, starstruck. Then one of the girls summoned up her courage. Offering the box to him, she said brightly "Buy some Girl Scout cookies? They're made with real Girl Scouts." Her friend elbowed her in the ribs, clamped her hand over her mouth and practically dragged her off the front porch, but not until they'd sold him some cookies AND gotten autographs. Well, it made me laugh. *sighs* Some people have all the luck.  
PS: Starling's/Lecter's inner thoughts are *starred* along with the odd word or two that shoulda been in italics.   
  
Disclaimer: As in chapter 1, I don't own 'em, I'm just borrowing 'em for a bit. And we're having a lot of fun :)  
  
Chapter Two: Thinkin' About Hannibalism...  
  
Clarice Starling sits alone at home, staring at the telephone. He has been gone almost all day. Her sobriety has returned along with the cold light of day. Last night seems like a dream, a vision brought on by too much cheap alcohol. But she knows he was here. His scent lingers in the air. She stares at the phone. Is she having second thoughts?  
  
*Clarice, girl, you are in the goop. Right up to your eyeballs. The personal goop-making machine's been putting in some overtime, wouldn't you agree? Shoulda turned him in hours ago. Honey, you are in trouble. God only knows what he's planning.*  
  
Starling shook her head in confusion. Her conscience, the voice of reason (who sounded rather like Ardelia) was telling her to exercise her phone-finger and dial 911 pronto. But another voice - a compelling voice - was telling her the opposite.  
  
*He's the only person who's bothered to check on you for months now. Even that shrink backed off. Ardelia hasn't visited for ages. He cares for you, girl. Open your eyes. Wake up and smell the bacon. Who else ever cared? Crawford? Jack Shit, that man. Just wanted to get in your panties. Daddy? Daddy's dead and cold in the ground now, little Starling. So's Brigham, and so many others. Why should you feed him to the dogs? Because he cares?*  
  
Clarice sighed. To hand him in, or not to hand him in? That was the toughest question she'd ever had to face.  
  
*You think they'll have you back? That you'll be reinstated, accepted? Think again, Sugar. They don't want to know you. You're dangerous, unclean. Bride of Frankenstein, for godsakes. They wouldn't have you back if you handed him over gift wrapped with a pretty bow. No chance. So why not wait and see what he's got to offer, hmm?*  
  
Starling rose. "Fuck it" she snapped, turning and walking away from the phone. She would not betray his trust again. She was glad. She had made her choice, for good or ill.  
  
It was late in the afternoon when Clarice heard the rumble of a station wagon in her drive. She went to investigate. It was big, blue and battered. The driver's door opened and Dr Lecter emerged, looking odd in faded jeans, a T-shirt and a baseball cap. He smiled when he saw her.  
  
"I trust you've had good day, Clarice?" He looked around, up at the sky and grinned cheerfully. "Lovely out here, isn't it?" Without waiting for an answer, he hauled several bulging shopping-bags out of his car and carried them inside. Clarice stared after him. Comments on the weather were most definitely un-Lecterlike, any day of the week. Vaguely astonished, she noticed that he was whistling merrily, and looking remarkably like the cat that's just got the cream. Obviously *he* was having a good day.   
  
She met him in the hallway. "Dr Lecter, what is all this?"  
  
"I thought I'd do some shopping. No, don't look like that. You see, I can't cook you an anywhere decent meal with the previous contents of your kitchen."  
  
"And here was I, thinking you could make a meal from *anything*"  
  
Dr Lecter chose to ignore that, and gestured to the groceries. "Real food." He smiled. "I'm cooking you dinner, Clarice. I think we'll dine in about an hour and a half. Why don't you go upstairs and have a relaxing bath, change into something more suitable..." It was almost a purr.  
  
"Dr Lecter, if this is going to be anything like -" She stopped.   
  
Lecter's eyes glittered with amusement. He leant closer until his lips brushed her ear and whispered "it's a surprise. Indulge me, Clarice. Please?"  
  
Privately cursing her suddenly shaky legs, Starling realised that she'd effectively been banished upstairs for the next hour or so. She slowly climbed the staircase, her hand gripping the rail a little harder than was necessary, as her legs seemed to have treacherously turned to jelly. *Damn it, one breath on your neck and you just melted right there on the spot, didn't you*. She'd almost forgotten the effect his touch had on her. Almost, but not quite. It was impossible to forget.  
  
She made it to the bathroom without incident, and leant back against the closed door. A deep breath later, Clarice turned towards the bath, catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her hand flew to her cheek in surprise. She couldn't recall the last time she looked at her reflection in a mirror. But there she was. Pale, and way too thin. And as for the circles under her eyes-  
  
"Whoa girl, you look like a demented panda."  
  
The ridiculousness of this statement caught up with her, and she started to laugh. In truth, last night was the first time she had slept easily in almost two years. *Score one for Dr Lecter. He drives the lambs away*.  
  
  
  
Aaah. Sweet. He drives the lambs away. Well, that's it for now, folks. The next instalment coming up soon. Can ya smell what the Doc is cookin' ? I've gotta go and do my History coursework (Miss Organisation 2001 - had 2 weeks to do it, there's now 3 days of holiday left, and I haven't started yet. I'd much rather write fanfic instead. Unfortunately, you can't do an A-level in Lecter studies or fic writing. Yet. :)   
  
Ta,  
Screaming Ferret.   
  
  
  
  



	3. The Devil is in the Details

  
AN/ Well, here we go...Crawford-bashing! I never really liked him in the first place anyway. Some Anglo-Saxon, I'm afraid. Enjoy :)  
  
Disclaimer: My name is NOT Thomas Harris, therefore they are not mine. I'm not making any money out of this either.  
  
Chapter Three: The Devil is in the Details.  
  
While Clarice was upstairs running her bath, Dr Lecter was in the kitchen making preparations for his *special* dinner. He had hit the shops with a vengeance, buying kitchen items as well as food. Clarice's kitchen was fairly well equipped, but special ingredients require specialised tools. He laid out kitchen knives, scalpels and a large meat-cleaver neatly on a white towel. Pans were rinsed and put by. The light salad that was the starter course was mixed up and covered. Then he took polish and duster to the small, unused dining room off the living-room, uncovering a practically antique warmer in the process. Once the room was clean, he began to arrange the lighting. Out came the candles he had purchased - big ones, small ones, even some floating ones to go on the table. Eventually satisfied with his candle-arranging, Dr Lecter left the dining room and returned to his car outside. Three of the four gifts he had bought Clarice Starling had to be taken quietly upstairs and left in her bedroom. With a long clothes-bag over one arm, and two boxes under the other, Dr Lecter slipped upstairs and into Starling's room. He hung the clothes-bag, containing an elegant dark green sheath dress, on her closet door. The box with matching shoes was placed on her dressing-table, along with the box containing emerald earrings and necklace.   
  
All aesthetic preparations having been made, Dr Lecter was eager to begin preparing the meal proper. Satisfied that Clarice would be fully occupied upstairs for the next hour, he returned to his station wagon to bring in her fourth gift. He had backed the vehicle right up to the garage door, so he could get it inside without being seen by the neighbours. He opened the garage door, wincing as it squealed on it's hinges. Hopefully, Clarice had not heard. Once the back door of the station wagon was open, Dr Lecter hauled out a heavy upright hand truck that had been lying on it's back down the length of the car. The man strapped to it appeared to be unconscious. He did not stir even when the wheels hit the ground. Dr Lecter backed the trolley into the kitchen via the side door in the garage. On closer inspection, we can see that it is indeed Jack Crawford on the trolley. He stood Crawford in a corner facing the wall, like a disgraced child. Checking the pulse spot on his throat, Dr Lecter was pleased to see that it was strong. He should be coming round any time now.  
  
The doctor hummed to himself as he prepared vegetables for the main course. Bach's Goldberg Variations. He hums his favourite part - it is the tune he killed the guards to, back in Memphis, years ago.   
  
Eventually, muffled sounds from Crawford's corner indicated that Starling's erstwhile boss had finally woken up. Dr Lecter looked up from his cooking.  
  
"Ah, Jack. I'm so glad you could join us" As he spoke, he turned Crawford's trolley around so that he could see his face. Crawford's eyes bulged as Dr Lecter's Harpy appeared under his nose. "Don't try to call for help, Jacky boy. I assure you it won't be forthcoming. Can I remove the gag, do you think? Will you be a good boy?"  
  
Crawford's head nodded vigorously. Dr Lecter showed his small, sharp teeth in a smile, and cut away the gag with one flick of his blade. Crawford's head sagged, he gasped in a few ragged breaths, then he looked up. His eyes travelled over the kitchen, lingering on the carefully laid out knives and medical instruments on their cloth. Each and every one looked sharp enough to split hairs. He came to the inescapable conclusion that he was in very deep trouble indeed.  
  
Dr Lecter watched with some amusement as Crawford's face paled even more than he thought possible. Eventually, Crawford spoke.  
  
"This is Starling's kitchen" he whispered hoarsely.  
  
Dr Lecter indicated that this was true.  
  
"What have you done to her? Where is she?"  
  
"At present, upstairs enjoying a bath. What did you think I'd done with her?" Dr Lecter came closer. "Did you think I'd *eaten* her? Oh, Jacky boy. You don't know me as well as you think you do. I'm hurt that you think the worst of me."  
  
"Can I see her?"  
  
"No, I don't think so. You'll just have to take my word for it, Jack. She's fine. Besides, I don't think she'd be too pleased to see you. She's gone off you, Jack. You're not her hero anymore." Dr Lecter chuckled. "My, doesn't that sting. And you so wanted her, didn't you?" He turned back to his sauce, adding something from a shaker.  
  
Crawford's voice behind him, angry and frightened.  
  
"What are you going to do to me?"  
  
*They always ask that,* Dr Lecter reflected. *Tell him precisely what he doesn't want to hear*. "I'm cooking her dinner. Nice and romantic, table for two, candles, flowers. You know how it is on those special first dates. Unfortunately, you're not invited." He patted Crawford's shoulder. "Never mind, eh? We can have a little party out here. The dinner's not ready yet, and the main ingredient - your heart - has to be cooked absolutely fresh."  
  
"Jesus Christ" Crawford swore, struggling against his bonds.   
  
Dr Lecter watched him for a moment. "There's no need for language like that, Jack. And I shouldn't struggle like that, either. You'll hurt yourself. Or do I have to sedate you again?"  
  
"Evil son of a bitch!" Crawford growled, hopelessly trying to free himself. "You had your 'first date' already, and she didn't fall for your *charm* then." There was a bitterness in his voice as he knew that he had already lost.  
  
"Water under the bridge" Dr Lecter said. "She's changed since then, Jack." There was an almost dreamy expression on his face. "She's ready to break out and fly. She's *going* to fly. With me." He brought his face closer to Crawford's. "She's mine, Jack. I won. I'm sure we'll think of you sometimes when we sit down to a good meal. I'm afraid you'll have to be content with that."  
  
Crawford tried to turn his face from Lecter's, from the crazy eyes boring into his. "You're a sick fuck, Lecter. And I hope that wherever you go, they get you. I hope you get the fucking needle."  
  
Dr Lecter sighed. "I'm afraid you're starting to bore me, Jacky boy" he said, selecting a needle from the ones arranged on the sideboard. "And we can't have that." He injected the sedative into Crawford's forearm. It bore tiny marks from his previous injections. Within a minute, Crawford was unconscious.  
  
Hannibal Lecter rummaged around in a bag and produced a set of surgical greens, an apron and gloves. With the ease of long practice, he donned them, and turning to the sideboard, he selected a long, wickedly sharp knife. The good Doctor studied Jack Crawford for a moment, then he carefully cut the man's shirt away from his chest. Dr Lecter laid one hand over Crawford's heart, feeling it give a very satisfactory thump. Quite the perfect gift for a very special lady, the doctor reflected, touching the point of the blade to Crawford's chest.  
  
Dr Lecter removed Jack Crawford's heart in time-honoured Aztec fashion, the only differences being that the victim was upright rather than spread-eagled over an alter, and his knife was sharp steel instead of obsidian. With three economical strokes, blood splattering apron and gown, Dr Lecter held Crawford's still beating heart in his hands. He laid it on a dish, and it gave one final, fluttering beat before lying still on the stainless steel. Lecter then stuffed the gaping hole in Crawford's chest with rolled up newspaper and a black bin bag. Leaving the unfortunate Section Chief standing lifeless in the corner, Dr Lecter prepared the heart for cooking.  
  
With the delicious smell of roasted meat wafting throughout the house, Dr Lecter decided that it was time to change for dinner. He pulled off the greens, balled them up and stuffed them in another bin bag. Going upstairs, he saw that the bathroom door was ajar. Clarice had finished her bath and was changing in her room. He wondered if she had heard them talking downstairs. He changed quickly in the guest room, a neat black tuxedo and polished shoes purchased today, along with Starling's dress.   
  
The doctor returned downstairs quickly, as he had to light the candles in the dining room, and bring out the starter course. Lighting the candles was easy, and they gave a very effective, romantic light to the previously dull, uninteresting little room. He had given some thought to their arrangement, and found the effect to be very satisfactory.  
  
Dr Lecter had just finished his preparations for the starter course, opening wine and making sure everything was just so, when the slight creak of a foot on the stair, and the whisper of expensive fabric announced the arrival on the scene of the guest of honour.  
  
  
  
My, wasn't that fun! I've studied Aztec culture quite a bit (I'd like to study Archaeology at University) and I could have gone into the *really* gory details, but that would be tasteless, wouldn't it? Next up, the dinner scene. For some reason, I'm really enjoying writing this. Please review, the feedback is much appreciated.  
  
Ta,  
Screaming Ferret.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Mad Hatter's Tea Party

  
AN/ The obligatory dinner scene. Four chapters down, two to go. Have fun :)  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the products of one man's genius. Step forward, Thomas Harris. We salute you!  
  
Chapter Four: The Mad Hatter's Tea Party.  
  
Clarice Starling paused in the doorway to allow her eyes to adjust to the candlelight. After a moment, she made out a figure standing at the head of the table.  
  
"Clarice, you are beautiful tonight."  
  
Dr Lecter came around the table to her. Taking her hand in his, he bowed over it in the Italian fashion, kissing it softly.  
  
Clarice smiled a little shyly. "Thank you, Dr Lecter" she replied, trying to ignore her pounding heart - *he must be deaf if he can't hear it*. "Am I allowed to ask what we're having?"  
  
The doctor smiled. "You never ask -"  
  
"It spoils the surprise" she finished for him, much to his own surprise. "I remember."  
  
Pleased, Dr Lecter led her to her seat. Starling looked around. Her small dining room was completely transformed. There were candles on almost every available surface, giving off a soft, rosy glow. Some of them also gave off a pleasing scent. Clarice watched as Dr Lecter poured wine - Chianti, she noticed with some amusement.  
  
He served Clarice her starter, a light salad with a glass of wine. Then he seated himself opposite her, admiring her in the candlelight. She was quite the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Dr Lecter congratulated himself on his choice of gown and jewellery for her. She was stunning in the dark green, the emeralds were shot with green fire whenever she moved.   
  
The salad was excellent, of course, but Clarice couldn't help but wonder what exactly he had planned for the main course. What if it was - or had been - human? That compelling voice in her thoughts - a voice she always thought of as being typically Hannibal Lecter - spoke up.  
  
*What's wrong with wanting to taste the enemy? It's perfectly natural...Good God, girl. You're as bad as he is. You're even starting to sound like him.*  
  
Across the table, Dr Lecter saw Clarice smile at something. He wondered what she was thinking about.  
  
*Perhaps that's because he's right. Maybe I am like him*. Starling banished her voice of reason with that thought. Human reason has no place at Lecter's table. And she did not want to think about duty, right or wrong. She was going to enjoy her evening. *Even if it means - eating something I shouldn't. Why not? Being the good guy last time didn't do me any favours*. She smiled at Dr Lecter.  
  
"The salad was excellent, Doctor. Thank you."  
  
"You're very welcome, Clarice" he said with a modest smile. "I hope you enjoy the main course as well, my dear. I cooked it especially for you." He had not missed the calm that had descended on her, replacing her previous nervousness.  
  
*Well, hell. Here we go*. "I'm sure I will, Dr Lecter."  
  
The starters finished, Dr Lecter rose and cleared the plates. Starling heard him humming to himself out in the kitchen. She sipped her wine, wondering at the change in herself.  
  
*Don't think about it, girl. Go with it. Don't repeat old mistakes, remember? It was a mistake that landed you in two years of drink-and-therapy hell. You've wanted this since you thought you'd lost him, that night on the Chesapeake. Besides, d'ya think he'd take kindly to the cops gatecrashing his little party? Honey, you wanted this. Are you prepared to accept the consequences? You'd better be, 'cos he'll be in here in a minute with that main course. And he won't be very happy if his effort's been wasted*.  
  
Clarice considered this as Dr Lecter busied himself in the kitchen. Was she prepared? Whatever happened tonight, there was no turning back.  
  
Footsteps announced Dr Lecter's return, bearing two plates. He set in front of Starling a plate with several slices of a rich, dark meat and carefully arranged helpings of vegetables.  
  
Dr Lecter returned to his seat and considered Clarice Starling. His lips twitched with a small smile as he watched her take a small bite.  
  
"This is delicious" she said, looking up at him. "It really is excellent." Clarice took another bite.  
  
Dr Lecter suppressed a triumphant smile, picking up his glass of wine. He held it thoughtfully for a moment, turning the glass to admire the wine in the candlelight. Then he looked across the table at her. Their eyes met. He raised his glass.  
  
"A toast" he said solemnly. "To the deceased. Jack Crawford."  
  
Whatever reaction he had been expecting from Clarice, he did not get it. She merely smiled and murmured "To Crawford" as their glasses clinked together.  
  
*Well, girl, you're not in Kansas anymore. The sonofabitch got Crawford. You have *really* done it this time. And you're trying so hard not to laugh, aren't you? Did you catch the surprise on his face? Congratulations, little Starling. You've managed to surprise Hannibal Lecter. A girl should always keep her man on his toes*.  
  
Clarice concealed a smirk. It was good to know that she could surprise him.  
  
They talked as they ate, about pleasant things. Music, the arts. The subjects of the FBI, the late Jack Crawford and their activities over the last two years were not brought up. But eventually the conversation came around to that fateful night on the Chesapeake.  
  
"The police arrested me" Clarice said as she finished her meal. "Took me to the local FBI field office. Crawford came down. They held me for three days. They had to let me go eventually - I had nothing to do with Krendler's death." She stopped, as if she expected him to disagree. She knew full well why Paul Krendler met such a grisly fate. The same reason that Miggs had swallowed his disgusting tongue.  
  
"Mm. The unfortunate Mr Krendler." Dr Lecter chuckled softly as he remembered. "Tell me, my dear, if you regret his death at all."  
  
This time Clarice did smirk. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world." She remembered having to stop herself saying this to Noonan and her bosses at the Bureau when they'd sacked her. She'd shocked herself then.  
  
Dr Lecter laughed, delighted. "Is that so?" he murmured, still chuckling. "Tell me something else, Clarice. Do you know why I killed Mr Krendler?"  
  
Starling met his gaze squarely. "Yes. I think so."  
  
"Tell me why, Clarice."  
  
"You killed him because he was rude to me, like Miggs was. You don't like people who are rude."  
  
"I don't like people who are rude to those I like, either. Did Crawford realise that?"  
  
Clarice thought about this. "He said you killed Miggs to amuse yourself. But he guessed about Krendler. That's why they kicked me out so fast. They didn't want to wake up one morning to find you standing over them with a Harpy knife."  
  
He grinned. "Do you think I would, Clarice? Visit Director Noonan, I mean?"  
  
She snorted. "You'd have a hard time getting to him, Doctor. Those guys do get the occasional terrorist after their blood."  
  
"You could help me, Clarice. You were a top agent, were you not?"  
  
Starling couldn't decide if he was joking or not. *Change the subject*. "Um. Just one thing, Doctor. What exactly have you done with Crawford's body? I hope you haven't left it in my kitchen..."   
  
Dr Lecter managed to look slightly guilty. "If having him in the kitchen bothers you, then I'll wheel him out to the garage. I'll get rid of him next time I go out."  
  
"Thank you." Clarice finished her wine. "Dr Lecter?"  
  
"Yes, Clarice?"  
  
"What happens next?"  
  
"Next?" Dr Lecter drawled. "Next. Ah, yes. I think coffee and perhaps a little music." So saying, he got up and began to clear the plates.  
  
Later, they sat - or rather Clarice sat. Dr Lecter stood by the open French doors, enjoying the cool night air - in Starling's living room. There was music on the stereo, a Scarlatti CD from Dr Lecter's car. The music wove about them, its notes painting the night with colours. Dr Lecter often thought of music in this way, as if it was something that could be touched and woven like a tapestry. The colours of the music delighted him, and tonight Clarice could see them too.  
  
Finally, Dr Lecter could stand it no longer. He set his coffee down and approached Clarice, who was watching him from an armchair.  
  
"Will you honour me with a dance, Clarice?" he asked her softly.  
  
Starling considered him a moment. Then a smile touched her lips and she took his hand. "I'd love to, Doctor."  
  
He slipped his arm around her waist. "Hannibal, please."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"My name is not 'Doctor'. It is merely my title. Use my name, Clarice." He smiled at her. "I think you're old enough now."  
  
Clarice moved her lips silently around the name, as if she were tasting it. "Hannibal."  
  
It was Dr Lecter's turn to shiver as he heard Clarice Starling say his name for the first time.  
  
He led her out onto the patio. The air was cool and refreshing after the warmth of the dining room. There was plenty of room to dance.  
  
"I should warn you that I'm not much of a dancer" Clarice warned him.  
  
"You'll do fine."  
  
Dr Lecter was, of course, an excellent dancer, and Clarice was better at dancing than she'd thought.  
  
"Stop watching your feet, Clarice. You dance very well."  
  
Starling looked up from watching her feet. She grinned. "Don't say I didn't warn you, when I tread on your toes."  
  
Dr Lecter laughed, rich and warm. His laugh had startled Clarice when she had first heard it, and now it made her smile.  
  
The music of Scarlatti spiralled around them as they danced on the patio. Spiralled around them and up towards the stars, up towards Orion the Hunter, bright in the sky. Dr Lecter, holding Clarice Starling in his arms, was conscious only of her. Her unique scent, her glorious hair and her body light and warm against his. He kept his eyes on her face, fascinated by the rapture shown there.  
  
"What are you thinking about, Hannibal?"  
  
The sudden question caught him (for once) off guard.  
  
"You" he said. "How beautiful you are. I never want this to end, Clarice." He sighed. "It will though, it'll be dawn soon."  
  
"What's that got to do with it?" she demanded. "You're not the bat out of hell that's gotta go when the morning comes, of that I'm fairly certain."  
  
Dr Lecter frowned, not understanding her reference. Clarice tried hard not to smile. "Don't you ever listen to the radio?"  
  
He shook his head. "Not if I can help it."  
  
"Try it. You might like Meatloaf."  
  
Dr Lecter grinned suddenly. "Clarice, I *love* meatloaf. But if it's the singer you're referring to, then *no way*." He felt her shaking with laughter and smiled to himself.  
  
When Clarice had stopped laughing, she looked up at him. He was miles away, lost in his own thoughts.  
  
"It doesn't have to end."  
  
Dr Lecter came out of his reverie. "Sorry?"  
  
"I said it doesn't have to end."  
  
"Clarice" he said gently, "I'm the centrepiece of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list. I'm a dangerous fugitive. If we were to be together, we would always have to hide. You'd share my life, Clarice. You'd share my fate too, if we were caught. I don't want that to happen to you. I am always on the run. You are *entitled* to more, my love."  
  
"What did you just say?"  
  
He smiled. "Love. Haven't you guessed yet? I love you, Clarice. I have since we met in Baltimore."  
  
Clarice blinked back sudden tears. "I think I'm entitled to make my own decisions, Hannibal. You don't have to protect me all the time. Let me run with you. There's nothing here for me. And -" her voice took on a steely tone "if you don't let me come with you, I guess I'll just have to follow you myself, won't I?"  
  
Hannibal Lecter looked at her in wonderment. "You would do that - for me?"  
  
"Yes" she said simply. "Rest assured, Hannibal, I'm *not* letting you get away this time."  
  
His arms tightened around her. "There is one condition, Clarice, if you come with me." His voice was steel.  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"Never leave me. Stay with me always." He brought his face closer to hers. "That is the only condition. If you come with me, you can never go back. I'll give you time to think about it. It's a big decision."  
  
Starling shook her head. "Already thought about it. I want to be with you, Hannibal. I'm decided, so don't go trying to change my mind."  
  
He cocked his head on one side, just looking at her. Then he chuckled. "You amaze me, Clarice."  
  
She grinned, slipping her arms around his neck. "I should *hope* so. I've been trying hard enough."  
  
Dr Lecter was startled yet again when Clarice pulled his head down to hers, and pressed her lips firmly against his.   
  
  
  
  
AN/You're disappointed that I've chickened out of writing a sex scene, aren't you? Well, I can do gore. I can do angst. I can even (if pressed) do funny, but I write really lousy sex scenes. So I thought I'd do a Thomas Harris, and tastefully fade to black at the appropriate moment. Unfortunately, I was writing this around 2am and I wanted to go to bed, so the appropriate moment came sooner than I'd intended. Never mind.  
  
Ta,  
Screaming Ferret.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Little Bumps on the Road to Paradise

  
AN/ It just gets better and better. Our favourite couple have to deal with a couple of problems the morning after. Lots more gore. Do have fun...  
  
Disclaimer: They belong to Thomas Harris, except Peters. He's mine, so I can do what I like with him.  
  
Chapter Five: Little Bumps on the Road to Paradise.  
  
The phone was ringing. The duvet moved as whoever was under it reached for a pillow to clamp over their head. The phone rang louder, shrill in the dark. More movement from under the duvet, and a muffled curse. A head appeared, followed by a hand that fumbled for the receiver.   
Clarice eventually managed to pick up the phone, nearly falling out of bed in the process. She had installed it by the bed while she was still with the FBI. It was Sods Law that an emergency would come up at some unholy hour, and her presence would be absolutely required.  
  
"Clarice, that you? Jesus, Starling, you had me worried. Why didn't you pick up?"  
  
Starling recognised the voice on the other end of the line. She'd shared a room with it's owner at the FBI Academy. "Ardelia, it's 4:30 in the morning. What's wrong?"  
  
A silence. Finally, "Clarice, you sitting down?"  
  
"Ardi, I'm *lying* down. What's going on?"  
  
"Crawford's dead, Clarice. That's what's wrong."  
  
A shiver of dread, a brief, breathless stab of fear shot through her. Then the moment passed and she was calm again. "How?" *As if I need to ask*  
  
Another pause. "Lecter got him. Got him straight out of his house, Clarice."  
  
As if he'd heard his name mentioned on the other end, Dr Lecter appeared from under the duvet. Twining his powerful arms around Clarice's waist, he rested his chin on her shoulder. "Is it Special Agent Mapp?" he asked in her ear, a note of glee in his voice.  
  
Starling nodded, nudging him in the ribs to tell him to be quiet.  
  
"Starling? Are you still there?"  
  
"Yep. How do you know it was - "  
  
Ardelia cut in. She was angry. "The evil bastard left a note, that's how. You know what this means, girl?"  
  
"What, Ardi?"  
  
"Lecter's in the neighbourhood. *You* have gotta be careful. Did I hear someone with you a moment ago?"   
  
*Damn* "My boyfriend."  
  
"At least there's someone with you. Not that it would stop him. Load your guns and lock your doors and windows. I'll be over in, oh, ten minutes."  
  
Ardelia, you don't have - " but it was too late. The dialing-tone announced that Mapp had hung up.  
  
"Shit!" Clarice threw the receiver away from her as though it were a poisonous spider. "We are in trouble."  
  
"What is it, Clarice?"   
  
"I've got the best part of Jack Crawford sitting in my garage, you in my bed and Ardelia's on her way over."  
  
The doctor chuckled as he rose and began to dress. "Hardly the *best* part, my dear. And I'm out of your bed. Don't worry about Jacky boy or Miss Mapp. I'll take care of it."  
  
"You are NOT going to 'take care of' Ardelia. She's my friend. I'd appreciate it if you dumped Jack somewhere, though."  
  
He bowed. "Your every wish is my command, fair lady." Then he was gone from the room, whistling the Goldberg Variations to himself.  
  
*He's getting very playful all of a sudden. Like a tiger - plays with its food before it eats it*  
  
Starling laughed to herself. She enjoyed Dr Lecter's unusual brand of humour. It took an unusual sort of person to appreciate it.   
  
Dressing hurriedly, she followed him downstairs. Passing the dining room, she realised that the candles and stuff from last night's dinner were still out. Shrugging, she closed the door. Ardelia had no business going in the dining room anyway. She reached the kitchen. He had put the kettle on. Sounds from the garage indicated that the doctor was having trouble with the garage door. It tended to stick at awkward moments. Like now.  
  
Dr Lecter glared at the uncooperative garage door, and unusually, he swore. It was fluent Italian, but there was no way that it could be anything but a curse. The mortal remains of Jack Crawford stood behind him, still strapped to its trolley. It was most inconvenient that the door should choose to jam at this precise moment. Not even his great strength could budge it. Dr Lecter shook his head in annoyance and started to look about for a can of oil.  
  
A sudden bright, yellow light glared from outside, under the garage door. Dr Lecter heard the boom of a powerful engine and the squeal of tyres as a car pulled into Starling's drive. He suddenly smiled. Special Agent Mapp had decided to join the party.  
  
Starling, pacing to and fro in the living room, jumped as she heard the car pull up. Crawford's body was still in the garage. If Ardelia started to look around, what could she do? The doorbell rang. Clarice took a very deep breath as she went to answer it.  
  
On the doorstep stood Mapp and another agent Starling didn't recognise.  
  
"Hi" she said.  
  
Ardelia stared at her. "Jesus, Clarice. You look awful."  
  
Clarice smiled weakly. "Thanks, girl."  
  
"This is Agent Peters, he's new to Behavioural Science. Peters, this is Clarice Starling."  
  
Peters held out his hand. "It's an honour to meet you, Miss Starling. Your profile on Lecter is incredible. I've read it cover to cover. I'm sure we'll catch him this time."  
  
Starling gave him a cold stare. "Are you? He's a difficult man to catch, Agent Peters, and I can *gaurentee* that he's smarter than you are. If my profile is so incredible, why did the Bureau drop me like a hot damn coal?"  
  
Agent Peters seemed nonplussed. Clarice earned a 'what's with you, girl?' look from Ardelia, who slipped past her into the hallway. Starling held the door wide open and gestured for Peters to follow Mapp in.  
  
*Come into my parlour...Ha. Hannibal is NOT going to like the overconfident Mr Peters, that's for sure. I hope for his sake that he doesn't put a foot out of line. As long as Hannibal stays out of sight, and they don't check the premesis, we're okay. Okay? Sugar, you are in trouble, and you know it.*  
  
"Ardelia, want some coffee? How about you, Agent Peters?"   
  
Mapp nodded. "Sure. Starling, can Peters check around? Just to be on the safe side."  
  
Clarice tried a laugh. "Ardi, you think I'm sheltering a wanted criminal or something? I haven't heard from him since Krendler's place. Sure, Agent Peters can check around." She smirked. "Be sure to check the wardrobe. And under the bed."  
  
Ardelia frowned. "Girl, you're not taking this seriously, are you? I know you've had a rough time and all, but aren't you even worried that Lecter might come after you?"  
  
*Not really* "Ardelia, I'm tired and I'm upset. To tell you the truth, I couldn't give a damn. If he wanted to kill me, I'd probably already be dead." She steered Mapp out of the kitchen and into the living room, as far away from the garage as possible.  
  
The expression on Agent Mapp's face was priceless, Starling thought. Upstairs, they could hear floorboards and cupboard doors creaking as Mapp's partner searched for hidden bogeymen.  
  
Ardelia suddenly looked at her friend. "Where's your boyfriend?"  
  
"Outside, checking the garden" Clarice lied.  
  
"You told him, then. Is he nice? Good lookin'?"  
  
Clarice grinned. "Oh yeah. Ardi, he's wonderful, and I'm not kidding. So, what's with the rookie?"  
  
"Peters? He's okay. You could have been a bit nicer to him, girl. He'll shape up to be a good profiler, I think. Not a Crawford or Graham, but he'll do fine."  
  
"You don't think you're dropping him in at the deep end, putting him on this case?"  
  
"Like Crawford did with you? Maybe the Lecter case is tough on a rookie, but it can't be any tougher than meeting the doctor face to face, can it?"  
  
Peters arrived then, to report the complete lack of criminals hiding out in Starling's wardrobe.  
  
"Check the garage" Mapp said. "I didn't think he'd be here, but he's a cunning son of a bitch."  
  
Starling shifted uneasily in her seat. He was in the garage. If he hid, okay. Peters life expectancy would be measured in miliseconds if he saw Dr Lecter, though. Or if he saw Crawford. And there was no way he could miss *that*.  
  
Special Agent Peters of the FBI entered Clarice Starling's kitchen, still smarting from the way she had spoken to him. So what if she had written the definitive profile on the world's most infamous serial killer? So what if she knew Lecter better than anyone else? It didn't mean that he wasn't capable of catching Hannibal the Cannibal himself. Was she jealous? He'd never believed the rumours that there was something between Lecter and Starling, that she was romantically attached to the monster.   
  
Peters let himself into the garage. It was dark and smelt of car oil and damp. He fumbled along the wall, looking for a light switch. Eventually he found one. He pressed it and it went 'ping'. No light came on. Peters swore. He'd left his flashlight in the kitchen. Turning to go back, he walked into something solid. The something - or someone - pinned him to the wall with a single movement. Peters felt a hand press across his mouth, then a sudden, bright light blinded him.   
  
Dr Lecter, armed with the agent's flashlight and his own Harpy, considered the unfortunate man before him. Peters eyes were wide with terror. Now accustomed to the light, he could see who had him. The doctor smiled at the terrified young man.  
  
"Good morning. No, don't try to struggle. You'll only make things worse." He slipped his hand inside Peters jacket, withdrawing first the gun, which he tucked into the back of his jeans. Then he extracted Peters ID, flipping it open and reading aloud. "Special Agent William Peters. Well well. I knew a Will once. A good looking young man, like yourself." He grinned. "That was before Francis Dolarhyde went to work on his face, however. I've since been reliably informed that he looks like Picasso drew him."  
  
Peters whimpered.  
  
"Oh, don't worry, William. May I call you that? Or do you prefer Will? I don't plan to do a Picasso on your face."  
  
Any comfort Peters may have taken from that was dispelled when Dr Lecter leant in close to him. "I'm going to disembowel you instead. You see, I *don't* like Williams."  
  
Lecter's hand moved fast. The wickedly sharp Harpy appeared between his fingers from it's hiding-place in his sleeve. It darted up Peters midriff and flowers of blood bloomed on the FBI agent's white shirt-front. The man's muffled scream trailed off into a wet gurgle as he died. Dr Lecter held Peters against the wall until he had stopped twitching, then he let him slump to the floor. The doctor raised one red hand and ran his long tongue across it, savouring the copper taste of blood. The floor had become a pool of blood and body fluids, with Peters lying in the middle of it all, his bowels in his lap, looking like a grotesque puppet with its strings cut.  
  
Clarice Starling and Ardelia Mapp sat in Starling's living room, waiting for Agent Peters.  
  
"Where the hell is he?" Ardelia asked for the second time.  
  
Starling shrugged. "Maybe he's gone outside" she said, praying that he had gone outside.  
  
"He went in the garage" Ardelia said, getting up. "Maybe we'd better check." She went into the kitchen, crossing to the little door. It was shut. There was no light on in the garage. "Where the fuck is he?" She opened the door and sticking her head around it, she called "Peters?" into the dark.  
  
Starling tried to grin. "Maybe he's gone out for a sneaky cigarette."  
  
Mapp gave her a withering look and pulled out her flashlight. "I'm gonna look for him. Coming?"  
  
"Don't go in there, Ardelia." It slipped out before Starling could stop it. She got another odd look from Mapp, who chose to ignore her. Clarice held her breath as Ardelia switched on the powerful torch. Its beam swept quickly across the dark garage, illuminating shelves, boxes and sacks on the floor. The beam stopped. Ardelia moved the light back slowly across the floor until it rested on the sacks. They wern't sacks.  
  
Beside her, Clarice heard Mapp gasp. "Holy God" she whispered as the hand that held the flashlight shook, causing the light to dance over the lake of blood on the garage floor. Starling didn't know what to say.  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, Ardelia swept the torchbeam back along the walls, slowly as if dreading a discovery. The FBI agent's free hand fumbled for her gun. Clarice felt for her own. *Where is he? And what's he done with Crawford?*  
  
The Crawford question was answered soon enough, as Mapp took a few tentative steps into Starling's garage. Her flashlight now illuminated the furthest corner and revealed an upright shape attached to a hand trolley. Dr Lecter had stuffed Crawford into the darkest corner and removed the light. Always conscious of appearences, the doctor had put a plastic Safeways bag over Crawford's head so Clarice would be spared the sight of his features. That, and the bin bag stuffed where, until recently, his heart had been, contrived to make the late Jack Crawford look more than slightly ridiculous.  
  
Ardelia reached out with one shaking hand to pull the plastic away, but Starling's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "Don't do it, Ardi" Clarice warned. "You're not going to like what you see."  
  
Ardelia stared at her, her eyes widening. "You knew, didn't you. You knew Lecter had killed him, before he'd even been reported missing. You KNEW, you bitch. Where is he?" She waved her gun about wildly.  
  
"Ardelia - what can I say?"  
  
"You can start by telling me WHY" Mapp growled. Now the gun was pointed steadily at Clarice.  
  
Clarice shrugged. "He loves me" she said quietly. "I love him. That's it. We *need* each other, Ardelia."  
  
"He told you he loves you? And you believed him? Was that before or after you chowed down on Jack Crawford?"  
  
"It doesn't matter. Put the gun down, Ardi. I don't want you to get hurt."  
  
"No way" Ardelia snapped. "Back into the kitchen, Starling."  
  
Starling said nothing, but turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen door, the muzzle of Mapp's gun pressed against her neck. Ardelia could barely keep her hand from shaking. The shock she felt at her best friend's betrayal was nothing to the grief.  
  
The cold blade of a knife touched the back of Mapp's neck as they reached the door. A voice that she'd only ever heard on tape whispered "Drop the gun, Agent Mapp" into her ear.   
  
A cold shiver ran down Mapp's spine at the sound of that voice. The knife dug in a little more. Finally: "Alright, alright. I'm putting the gun down." Mapp was pleased to note that her voice was steady.  
  
As soon as the gun left her neck, Clarice turned. Ardelia stood stock still in the kitchen door. Dr Lecter's knife now rested against her throat. She was trying to breathe. Dr Lecter looked over Mapp to Starling, and winked at her. Clarice tried not to smile as she stooped to pick up the gun. She'd never before seen Mapp look even remotely scared about anything.  
  
"Do you think I can let go of you, Agent Mapp? Will you be sensible?"  
  
Ardelia made a cautious affermative "uh huh" sound. Chuckling, Dr Lecter released her. She stumbled away from him, towards Starling, then pulled up short as she looked from one to the other.  
  
Dr Lecter studied the woman. "What shall we do with you, Ardelia? It seems that we've been discovered. Clarice and I will have to leave soon, and I'm afraid that we can hardly leave witnesses."  
  
Clarice sighed. She'd been afraid this would happen. *You knew this would be part and parcel of being with him. You can't expect him to change overnight, just because of you. You don't even know if he would stop. Remember what you said? You'd never ask him to stop. Not in a thousand years, remember? Yes? Good. You're gonna have to deal, Honey. And that means dealing with this.*  
  
Starling shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ardelia. I love you." She raised the gun, a well-worn Colt 45 like her own, and fired.  
  
  
  
AN/ I love doing the gory scenes. Sorry if you like Ardelia, she didn't really deserve that, I know. One more chapter to go. Be nice and review:)  
  
  
Ta,  
Screaming Ferret.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. And No More Shall We Part

  
AN/ Final chapter! And it's short and sweet. I've got a new Hanfic(ish) simmering on the stove, so watch this space. I spose this has done quite well for my first multi-chaptered fic. Enjoy, I'm off to watch X-Files videos. 'Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space' *sniggers*  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. How many times do I have to say it?  
  
Chapter Six: And No More Shall We Part.  
  
When the police arrived at midday they found the house quiet, the drive empty except for Starling's grey Mustang. No-one answered the door. Having grown suspicious when neither Mapp nor Peters had answered their mobile phones, and having let Starling's phone ring for nearly ten minutes, the FBI had scrambled a SWAT team, who now waited in a van down the road. Everyone was prepared for the worst.  
  
The police officer at the door rang the bell one more time. No answer. Another FBI agent, bulky in body armour, wrapped his hands around the handle of a sledgehammer. The door stood up to three swings before splintering, then the SWAT team were swarming into the hallway. Crashes from the back of the house announced another forced entry through the kitchen window. Calls of 'Clear' came from the living room, the dining room and upstairs, but from the kitchen came a shout. A tall agent skidded into the living room where the Special Agent in charge, Ron Corman, waited.  
  
"In the kitchen, it's Mapp. She's in the kitchen."  
  
Broken glass scattered across the tiled floor, the curtains yanked from their runners. Plates stacked neatly ready to be put away, and on the floor Ardelia Mapp, pale in death. Two FBI agents stood uncomfortably next to the body, their boots had made prints in the sticky blood on the floor. Ardelia Mapp, the back of her head blown off, a neat hole in her abdomen. Corman blanched.  
  
"Where's Peters?" he asked.  
  
One of the men looked towards the open garage door. Corman skirted the pool of drying blood and peered inside. A shape loomed in the darkness, but it was only a member of the SWAT team, distinctly grey-faced.  
  
An inspection of the garage revealed first the body of the late Agent Peters, sliced up the middle by Dr Lecter's sharp knife. His body was unmutilated, the doctor's dislike for Williams extended to his taste - he was not going to ruin his palate with Agent Peters.  
  
Crawford, on his trolley, was discovered in the far corner. The officer that found him ran outside, his hand over his mouth. Pinned to the plastic bag over Crawford's head was a note. In a fine copperplate hand, it said:   
  
'She ate that burning heart out of his hand'.   
Ta ta,  
H.  
  
At the bottom was a PS: 'Wouldn't have missed it for the world - C'.  
  
Far away, on a road headed to the South, a powerful Jaguar purrs along, eating up the miles. Dr Lecter had left the station wagon in a parking lot and retrieved his Jaguar from the garage of the hotel he'd stayed at before paying his social calls. He much preferred it to the ancient 'tank' he'd had to drive.  
  
He is not alone in the car. Clarice Starling sits in the passenger seat. Eyes closed, she listens to Scarlatti. Dr Lecter is pleased that she appreciates the colour and texture of the music. He hopes to teach her much, to show her Vermeer and Botticelli, to take her to Florence and Athens.   
  
*Show her everything. There is so much that would delight her, if she could only see it.*  
  
Dr Lecter looks across at his companion. As if she knows he is watching her, she opens her eyes and smiles at him. He smiles back. They are heading for the southern states, preferring to drive, to spend the time together. It is nearly Mardi Gras time, and Clarice has never been to New Orleans. Dr Lecter smiles to himself.  
  
*We'll have a lot of fun*  
  
  
FINIS  
  
AN/ *sigh* Now I've gotta get on with my history coursework. I hate it. I actually had a dream about William the Conqueror last night. And for some reason, mint Aeroes. Scary, huh? Anyway, Dr Lecter told me we'd have a lot of fun when I started writing this, and by Golly he was right. So - do I go straight ahead and write my next one, or do I get on with my coursework? Decisions, decisions...  
  
Ta ta,  
Screaming Ferret.  
  
  
  
  



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